


in your eyes, sanctuaries

by vaec (aosc)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 19:19:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2633258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aosc/pseuds/vaec
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Actually, I'd love a bar down here -- and a scotch. Preferably from Islay, but I don't suppose you would find that hereabout."</p><p>Five times where this is Desmond's life, and him and Shaun split the title of Grand Master Asshole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in your eyes, sanctuaries

**Author's Note:**

> so, cleaning out my files, i found this piece in my old 2011 stash. originally titled _5 times desmond and shaun interacted inside and outside of the animus, and were loveable assholes, et cetera_. it was published on my old dA account, i think, and boy, was that a long time ago. i decided to polish it up a bit because, what the hell, it's the old gang. i miss them. pre-slash, because deshaun is absolute. canonical aversion from the end of brotherhood.

* * *

 

The first time Rebecca puts him under again after arriving at the Auditore villa in Monteriggioni, Desmond feels as though he is all around wholly unfamiliar with the mechanics of Ezio. It's an odd feeling, seeing as, well, he _is_ Ezio. For various extended periods of time, by blood and by gene, however you like it to go. The point is, that he has lived through centuries with his ancestor -- Desmond  _knows_ him, from how it feels to bleed out on the street, to the pleased curl to his smile at Leonardo da Vinci's exuberant friendship. Waking up in an unfamiliar dusty attic with a bandaged, useless shoulder, and a relative hangover worthy of only the best in the business, however, ( _read: Desmond himself as a true professional. You do not go about as a bartender in The Apple without earning yourself a bachelor in hangover cures_ ) people could certainly argue about experiencing the ghost in the machine, but this feel is wholly alien, and quite frankly -- it's creepy.

 

He doesn't mount into the saddle as the Animus prompts him to do, but decides instead to go with something he might actually be able to do, and leads the ashen mare along the trampled road by his still functioning side. She trips about and neighs anxiously, clearly uncomfortable with the smell of cloying blood on his tunic, and the screech of corrosion in the mail of his armor. "Stop that," he grouses, and boxes her gently in the mane. A jolt of pain stabs at his shoulder, reminding him of just how much _that_ is worth, consciousness bleeding, vision fogging.

 

Desmond clenches his jaw, teeth clicking hard. A static crackles in his ear. _"Feeling your age yet?"_ Shaun quips cheerfully over the battered line.

 

"Oh, shut up," Desmond mutters.

 

The conversation they'd had yesterday in the car, leading up to the exchange, had mostly revolved around Desmond bragging (entirely justified) of _the genes on him_ , Ezio's odd forty years and then some relatively unnoticeable whilst in-action. In differing types of action, even.

 

Shaun gives a triumphant _ha,_ and says _"Isn't silence just golden?"_

 

Desmond tunes him out in favor of talking to the dottore, his cart situated by the Aqueduct running across the curving hill. He grasps the medicine shakily, but downs the whole bottle with fervor. It takes a while before it kicks in, but Desmond feels like Ezio's well oiled machinery finally decided to wake the hell up when it eventually does. In a bout of testosterone fuelled indignance, he sets off up the side of church tower, scaling it obstinately. The patterned stone laid across the corner is warm through his gloves from the sun, and the higher he goes, the cooler it gets, a welcome contrariety.

 

 _"That type of architecture is actually called Quoins,"_ Shaun says after a long bout of silence, a weak attempt at a comeback, even for him. Desmond snorts. He wins. He'll have to cross that off in the scoring block. Well, the one he makes when he can have a break, that is.

 

67 - 33 to Desmond, _king of arguments_ , Miles, the first of his name.

 

* * *

 

He goes through the first Christina memory. The following things happen: he beats up Vieri. That is literally it. Because, preferably, Desmond does not do it with the dead. She's been that -- dead, for centuries, after all. He is also a fervent opposer to necrophilia. ( _"Are you sure?" Shaun pipes up over his microphone. Desmond ignores him. It's hard._ ) Then Ezio makes a fool of himself. Totally on his own. Desmond is only along for the ride, after all, he's not exactly got much option for the most. He decides then and there, that he promptly needs a break from all of it.

 

"You're an asshole," he tells Shaun when Rebecca has pulled him out of the Animus. Desmond snaps the electrodes from his chest, and pulls the syringe from the crook of his elbow, before pointing accusingly to him. The historian seems unfazed as ever, but the light rustle in his clothes and the quake in his shoulders tells him he's silently laughing. Desmond narrows his eyes. He turns to Rebecca. " _Why,_ is he an asshole?" She shrugs, twisting in her chair and taps in a couple of commands in a black popup, demanding, on her screen. "Maybe it's the herpes," she answers, quizzical.

 

Desmond turns to Shaun, about at the same time as Lucy does, staring at Shaun's straight spine and very, very, careful and slow spin to face them. Lucy meets Desmond's gaze, gives him a look that is the equivalent of saying _what can you do_ , and shrug helplessly, before she returns to the screens which mirrors on her face shadows pale and ghostly. Shaun's chair groans when he swivels to glare at the three of them in turn, and stomps his foot down. "That argument went the other way, woman," he splutters. "I said Britain tolerates Europe like someone tolerates genital herpes!"

 

Rebecca slips her headphones down to situate around her neck, and spins also her chair around, to join their party. She leans back into its stead, posture crooked and knuckles supporting her chin on the armrest. She looks decidedly passé with the conversation, too, and Desmond wonders with emotion, _why me_.

 

"I wouldn't know. A hundred percent American, baby," Rebecca drawls.

 

"Uncultured plebeians," Shaun mutters.

 

Desmond glares. "Hey!"

 

"A prime example, Desmond. Thank you for starting this," Shaun says, and sighs, as though Desmond just does not _get it_.

 

He relaxes back into the Animus's curved fit. He needs a break. This is not his definition of a break. He doubts this is anybody's definition of a break. Except for maybe Shaun's. _Freak_. "Man, if any of you'd been at the other side of my bar right now I would've thrown you all out," he sneers.

 

"Actually, I'd _love_ a bar down here -- and a scotch. Preferably from Islay, but I don't suppose you would find that hereabout."

 

* * *

 

"Man, this is _so_ good," Desmond mumbles around a couple of fries. Rebecca hums her agreement, indulging in a Big Mac. Shaun looks mildly disgusted, chewing on a dry McD salad which is, contrary to its healthy purpose, drenched in Rhode Island.

 

"Don't you think so, Shaun?" Rebecca smirks, and snatches a couple of Desmond's fries, the thief. He protectively cups a palm over them, snapping for her fingers, shooing them back and away. Shaun scoffs. "What with you two looking eerily reminiscent of two pigs feeding; no, I decidedly do not. It makes me queasy."

 

Desmond _coo_ s, and, whilst putting on his thickest Shaun-accent, says, "Aww, is that a bout of sullenness I detect there in your voice?"

 

Shaun flips him off with a prominent scowl, and chews up another shred of mix salad. Desmond can feel his belly giving a genuine sympathetic twinge, really. That stuff just can't be any good for one's health, hollow of nutrition and substance. Not to mention, it's from a fast food restaurant, he's not even sure it is salad. Desmond's not so mean he actually says that though. If Shaun wants to chomp on his plastic greenery, then who is Desmond to take that small pleasure from him in this world where their indulges are just way put off the road.

 

"Besides," Desmond says as a means to break the silence and abandoning his thought. "With my DNA, who can blame me? I think you've all seen enough of Ezio to agree with me on that. I mean, I've learnt at least three new ways to twist my tongue in while in Italy."

 

Rebecca coughs on her Coke, sputtering and laughing from beside Desmond. Shaun drops his fork, and Lucy heaves a sigh from behind her screens. "Thanks, Desmond, for sharing that piece of info. Too bad you won't ever get the chance to demonstrate your newfound skills on a live object," she deadpans.

 

"Oh believe me, I can demonstrate. You want to be the one -- or should I just email you a tape when this is all over?"

 

He knows it's incredibly inappropriate by the time he dares to face the death glare he receives, Lucy's silence betraying none of her feelings on the subject that the red blooming on the tips of her cheekbones does. Rebecca wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. He supposes he can scribble that into his victory block, as well.

 

* * *

 

Okay, so Desmond is thick. That one's old. He's not even going to bother with replying to that one anymore. However, he's not explicitly going about to denying that he might do stuff that comes across as. Well, dumb. Reckless. Pick your poison. He's an asshole with incredible parkour abilities, what is he supposed to say.

 

"You -- are an asshole," Rebecca declares, scowling from where she cranes her neck to oversee the starch stitches stretching now across the curve of Desmond's bicep. They don't reach around, but there had been a relatively deep gash slashing straight across the chord of muscle, and Desmond knows it's more serious than he wants to make it out to be. For a considered normal guy, perhaps not, but for Desmond? Yeah, this one's serious, what with all the implications of an injury is.

 

Desmond scratches the back of his neck, not actually looking her in the eye. "Why am I the asshole? I slipped, big fuckin' deal," he mumbles.

 

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Considerate," Shaun snaps. "Believe it or not, Desmond, but this entire operation depends on your health. And some of us do care, outside of that."

 

Desmond dares a glance over at the historian, who's pale and wide eyed, squared shoulders, and also twisting at his heel, stalking away. Somewhere, in the depths of him, Desmond knows that Shaun is implying something far too ambiguous for a him on Vicodin. So fuck, but Desmond has lost a little too much blood, and a few too many years off of his lifespan on those slippery fucking roofs and so he just -- won't. He rubs at his temple with the fingertips which do not cramp when he crooks them, and draws a rattling breath.

 

"We'll continue in the morning. Desmond, you should get some rest," Lucy says. She puts a thin hand on his shoulder, her palm soft and cool to the touch of his clammy shoulder. He doesn't have the energy to argue.

  

* * *

 

It ends with Desmond screwing it all up and royally sideways in the battle with Cesare Borgia in Spain, and Rebecca forcefully pulls him out of it.

 

He sits up rigid, muscles quivering, thoughts running errant and wide, and he thinks he might distinguish a stream of conscious blooming at the back of his skull that is decidedly not his own. He can't see, white and bursts of stars in the haze there. In the breaking of his ear drums, there is the loud tolling of bells, and the remnants of firing misguided bullets from Leonardo's early pistol construction. He draws a massive breath which rumbles in his lungs and shakes beneath his breastbone, rattling in his throat -- and closes his eyes. His arms cramp, but remain numb, as if he's put all of his weight on them for too long. The only thing he _can_ properly feel is a forked stabbing behind his eyes and the frenzied thick pounding of his heart.

 

"Desmond!"

 

He's jolted out of the effect, bleeding immediately into the Eagle Vision, and sees the abyss of black, punctuated only by the bright lights of the honest to God living people who remain with him through all of this fucking _bullshit_. Desmond groans, flopping back into the Animus. His joints _ache_ , and he's twenty five. Or whatever. "Fuckin' Bleeding Effect," he slurs.

 

And then they have to leave, because Abstergo are everywhere ( _or so Vidic announces through his giant fucking megaphone_ , Desmond thinks surly) Past that, he's not sure what at all happens. Except that he vaguely remembers Shaun dictating Rebecca to the front seat, whilst he himself flops heavily into the seat beside Desmond in the back, fingers erratically switching between Desmond's pulse and to hook in two of his fingers. Outside, the scenery blurs, or if it's Desmond's vision -- as they rally for the borders, and for France.

 

* * *

 


End file.
